


everything is okay (okay? okay, okay.)

by orphan_account



Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apotheosis (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals), don't let the first chapter fool you this shit will get angsty, everyone should appear at someone, the plan is to be paul-centric but who knows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Paul. Just the thought of him made her head spin like when she was on heavy duty painkillers. Gross. They were— What? In love? No, no, no thank you. She was some piece of trash 20 year old and she was not in a committed relationship. This was just some long-term post-trauma government-funded hookup, yessiree.Wow, Emma,she thought to herself.Your 6AM soliloquies are fucking hilarious."Or, a series of short, vaguely linear scenes post-apotheosis.
Relationships: Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

Emma is doing pretty good, all things considered. She survived the apocalypse, got an iron bar through the leg, found out that she in fact, _didn’t_ survive the apocalypse and was surrounded by the alien perpetrators of said apocalypse and only avoided death because her boyfriend fought off possession/infection with the Power of Love (trademark pending).

Now, she’s living in a small, cozy house in the midwest and is doing pretty fucking good. She rarely has crippling panic attacks at the sound of the faint pop music. She can walk almost ten feet without wanting to pass out from the pain from her bad leg.

But maybe that was unfair. She was an independent pot business woman now, thank you very much, and she didn’t have to deal with shitty (singing, murderous) bosses. She had her own home, and had her mountain-like crushing pile of debt removed from her life. Sure, it wasn’t technically _hers_ but rather _Katie Woods_ , but now was a better time than ever to stop making that distinction.

Most of all, she had Paul. Just the thought of him made her head spin like when she was on heavy duty painkillers. Gross. They were— What? In love? No, no, no thank you. She was some piece of trash 20 year old and she was not in a committed relationship. This was just some long-term post-trauma government-funded hookup, yessiree.

 _Wow, Emma,_ she thought to herself. _Your 6AM soliloquies are fucking hilarious._

She turned over in her bed to face the eponymous man.

She probably should think something about how calm and young and beautiful he looks in his sleep but honestly, she has hit her shitty romance novel quota of the day. And it’s untrue. He’s still got bags under his eyes, vaguely confused wrinkles on his forehead, a half-frown on his face that leaves her wondering if he’s going to wake up and ask her if she’s been walking on her bad leg again. He’s still _Paul._

Even if when he's awake, his eyes are just a little too blue now.

Gel washed out, his hair looked surprisingly soft. A large brown dusty brown swath had fallen over his face during the night, and she couldn’t resist the urge to tuck it back behind his ear.

Okay, maybe she wasn’t done with the romantic bullshit.

While she had the pleasure of being unable to recall the subject of tonight’s nightmare, though it isn’t quite a mystery. She doubted she’d be able to go back to sleep regardless, so she slipped out of bed as stealthily as possible. Paul stirred a little, scarred hand cradling the pillow she just occupied.

Emma walked out of the bedroom, keeping her footsteps as soft as she could. Her shirt (oversized as it was) left the skin of her arms bare, and the air was cool against them. She continued down the beige hallway connecting to the kitchen, into the obnoxiously bright room. Rubbing at her eyes, she walked to the counter on auto-pilot, grabbing the shiny metal handle of the “”french press''”.

“Ooh la la,” she grumbled to herself as she poured some coffee into the pot. “Can’t having a fucking Keurig, that’d be too boring.”

Instinct continued to lead her through the simple steps of getting and heating the water, pressing down on the pot, pouring herself a fresh cup, taking them both over to their small kitchen table. She added a splash of milk, and perhaps a bit more sugar than she ought to have— But she deserved to treat herself. The smell was incredibly enticing, and her stomach was just beginning to remind her that breakfast was in order. 

Pushed right against the wall, the table gave a nice view through the window, perfect for avoiding each other’s gazes at uncomfortable moments. Just as she sat down, wincing slightly at the cool metal of the table against her still warm skin, she heard the gentle creak of the bedroom floors.

Her boyfriend stumbled out from the hallway, looking very mussed. His hair had in fact returned to its fallen place, obscuring one of his bleary eyes. Emma _definitely_ did not find it cute.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” she said, voice creaking horrifically as she spoke. Ew.

“No, you didn’t,” he murmured, voice soft and not nearly as disgusting as her own. “Can I, uh--” 

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the coffee pot.

“Oh, sure.” Emma quickly stood up, resulting in the chair making a ‘champion for the possible worst noise ever’ as it squeaked against the tile floors. Both of them cringed, Paul’s hands jumping to cover his ears. “Sorry!”

“It’s fine,” he replied quickly, hands moving to instead grab a mug from the counter. Always the green one, she noticed. Average size, smooth, designless, squarish in shape, the color of sea foam. He brought it over and she filled it, thankfully not spilling it across the table like her luck would have had it. 

“Black as midnight,” she mumbled to herself, amused. “You know, I would have pegged you as a cappuccino kinda guy, all things considered.”

“I actually like it with sugar,” he admitted.

She paused. _“What?”_

“I didn’t want to make my order too difficult at Beanies? And then I didn’t know how to bring it up?” He gave her a sheepish grin, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Paul, I’ve been making you coffee for like, a month!”

“There was never a good time!” Now he’s laughing too, and she’s pretty sure that neither of them are actually laughing about the coffee, but it's nice to laugh about something at all.

She pushed the bowl of sugar over to him, and he carefully poured two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. They sipped in silence for a few minutes, letting their eyes adjust to the morning light. It lit the room a pleasant orange, painting the floor, the walls, the few non-cannabis plants she has plotted in stray corners. She got up, grabbing herself a muffin and an everything bagel for Paul. She asked Paul if he wanted butter, he said no. She couldn't help but wonder if his appetite was always so small. He never ordered any food at Beanie’s, but now she has to prompt him for every meal. He didn’t refuse the bagel though, and that’s good enough for her.

When she looked back at him, sitting back down, his hair had been pushed back into some semblance of its normal appearance. He didn’t really seem focused on the bagel, far more on her. Like hell she was going to let that stop her from eating. She began tucking into her muffin, probably far quicker than whatever’s healthy, and Paul soon followed, ripping chunks off his own baked good with his good hand. His gaze kept jumping from her to his own food, and she was a second away from asking if she had gotten a zit on her forehead when he spoke.

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

You know, Emma amended her previous statement. The window was an okay way to avoid Paul’s face, but clearly her muffin was the perfect target.

A moment passed.

“I’m not mad or anything--”

“This _totally_ isn’t your shirt,” she argued, and if her face is warm it because of all the fucking sunshine in the room. “I mean, technically, all of this is the government’s clothes.”

“Alright,” he said quickly.

“And stop smiling, you asshole.”

He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how come I came out of Black Friday reobsessed with tgwdlm?? That's not how this is supposed to work???
> 
> sorry if there's any grammer/spelling/ect mistakes and the definite tense issues going on. I had to ride the Productivity Wave and it was a bumpy ride. also, I read a ton of fanfic right after tgwdlm came out and then forgot it all, so if I've accidentally stolen something please let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

There was no feeling better than the sun on your back, Paul decided. Of all weather, he actually liked rainy days far more, to curl up inside with a book and a hot drink. But the sun made him feel alive, and he needed that, so desperately. 

The warmth was almost uncomfortable though, sweat beading at his temple, his body sticky. He wanted to take off his jacket, but his arms were linked with Emma's, tightly, her body pressed right up against him, burning hot like a furnace. He wanted to ask her to move for a second, but he didn’t want to break the silence.

He tried to keep enjoying the moment, he really did. It was hard with all the staring people on the block. A bird began to sing a warbling tune and it sent a shiver down his spine.

Emma said something, but he couldn’t make it out through the birdsong. He (politely) asked her to repeat herself. The people, at some point, seemed to have become a crowd. She softly hummed, in question, why he hurt her.

He pushed her away then. The heat had changed to a burning gaze, sets upon sets of blue eyes, filled with a variety of exaggerated emotion and unified solely by their coloring and complete deadness. Emma had them too when she turned toward him, moving with an impossible gracefulness. Her lips were glossy and faintly blue.

He wondered if this was the reprise— the chorus happily informed him so.

He was surrounded now, the people turned to a mob, a terrible ensemble. He tried to rip his arms away from the man his brain ( _incorrectly?_ ) informed him was Ted, red hair and clean-shaven, but all he found himself able to do was lie slack. 

As she held him, Emma was almost tender. He certainly was not, he remembered the bruises on her neck when she visited him during his decontamination. He also remembered the act of strangling her, and the euphoria that wasn’t his own, or so he prayed when he lay in bed next to her, unable to sleep. In lew of a painful grip, she stroked the side of his cheek, moving her other hand to cradle the nape of his neck while he desperately shook his head.

The woman who wasn’t his Emma crooned her love for him before pressing their lips together. 

Paul did not have much experience kissing, but this forceful thing was uniquely wrong. She pressed against him like a vice, tongue slick and slimy as she parted his lips to expel into him. He squirmed and squirmed and squirmed but he was pretty sure other hands must have joined to hold him in place, or he truly had lost any semblance of control.

Alien liquid filled his mouth, his throat. Blue shit, his brain happily supplied, and he preferred that to _salvation_ or _apotheosis_. It was clogging everything it touched, and he couldn’t breath, he was choking in 4/4 time, drowning _andante._

How long till singing voices replaced the blackness creeping at the edge of his vision? Till he became a front seat watcher to an azure hell on earth?

Someone shouted his name, discordantly out-of-key. He distantly wanted to cry, but he’s sure the closest he would get is the blue dripping out his tear ducts.

“Paul!” He was shaken, violently, the hands that gripped him moving

back and forward and back and

forward and it’s

all fading

_and—_

His eyes snapped open. He lurched forward and Emma barely cleared the space before he occupied it. Threw off the smothering covers. Shaking hands leapt of their own accord to cover his face— Half an attempt at protection, half an attempt to feel out any foreign, parasitic liquid.

He panicked at his slick cheeks before realizing the obvious. Tears. Of course.

Emma said something to him. She sounded afraid, and that’s enough to finally pull him out of the last moments of his terrified floundering. He turned towards her, his disheveled appearance reflected in her wide brown eyes.

“A dream?” He meant to say it confidently, consolingly, an explanation, but his voice cracked and it turned into a pathetic little question.

She frowned at him, nodding slowly and yep, he was definitely the worst man alive, because Emma looked a bit like she was about to cry.

“Can I— Hug you?” Paul asked, and he tried to justify it to himself that it was for her sake.

She nodded again, far faster, choking out a spoken “Yeah” that he appreciated in a way only she could know. She wrapped her arms around him so tightly, but the embrace was not restricting or painful. It was wanted, and more importantly, it was loving.

“I love you,” he murmured into her ear, because he felt it needed saying. So did: “I’m sorry.”

She was silent for a long, worrying moment. “Don’t be. I— I care about you, a lot, you know.”

He knew what she meant, and that was good enough for him. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, a rare but pleasant sensation. He could smell her shampoo like this, faint peaches and cream and little notes of things he could only define as soft. Very unlike Emma. (Strike that, very like Emma.)

It was probably weird to smell your girlfriend. Then again, Paul’s limited romantic past experiences did not involve a lot of post-nightmare cuddling. Or nightmares, or cuddling in general.

“You feelin’ better?” Emma mumbled.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” She twitched a bit as his soft breaths of his words hit her neck, long locks of hair brushing against his cheek.

“I told you not to apologize, dummy,” she said fondly. She paused again, nuzzling a bit against his head. “You want to talk about it?”

He thought about it. “Nope,” he answered as casually as he could.

“Alright, cool.” 

He tried not to chafe at the obvious relief in her voice.

“Do you want to get up?” It was the polite thing to ask, he knew.

“Nope,” she mimicked, popping the ‘P’.

He laughed quietly, grinning against her neck. “Me either.” And with that, he plopped back down into the messy sheets.

That got a laugh out of her— She joined him, curling up against his chest.

And very soon after, in each other's arms, they slid into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [roller skates back into this fic after three months] anyway I still Love these emotionally repressed idiots in (this garbage year of) 2020. thank you for all your comments and kudos last chap, they gave and continue to give me life!!! next chapter look forward to more Not Talking About Hatchetfield and meeting some old friends (and having a panic attack in a grocery store bathroom)


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